Thierry Jonquet - Tarantula

The rest could wait till later. Later, he would certainly have to kill Lafargue and his wife.

He went back up to his bedroom, delighted with the success of the first part of his plan. He would wait till evening, for Lafargue’s return to Le Vésinet, and his shock at finding the bitch gone; then he would pay a call on the surgeon and tell him what the deal was. This was hardball! They were all going to see, all those shits, just what sort of stuff Alex was made of!

He poured himself a glass of wine, smacking his lips after drinking. As for that bitch, he was going to do her in more ways than one. Why not? Business should be mixed with pleasure.

But take it slow. First, take care of Lafargue. He could see about the sex stuff later.

This is horrible! It is all starting again. You don’t understand it—or, rather, you are afraid you understand it all too well. This time, Mygale is going to kill you!

For three days he didn’t say a word to you. He brought your meals up to your room, but wouldn’t even look at you. When he had burst into the studio apartment and put an end to the whipping from the crazed Varneroy, you had been dumbfounded. He was cracking, obviously: never before had he let pity show. Back at Le Vésinet, he had been tender, attentive to your pain. He had put ointment on your wounds, and in amazement you had seen his eyes brimming with tears .

This morning you had heard him leave for the hospital. Then he had come back, leaped at you, and knocked you down. And here you are, a prisoner once more, back in the cellar chained up in the dark .

Hell is about to return, just like four years ago, after he caught you in the forest .

He is going to kill you. Mygale has gone mad, far madder than before. Viviane has had another crisis. He has been to see her in Normandy, and he can’t stand it. Pimping you no longer works. What will he think up?

He had changed so much over these last few months. He was far less mean. True, he would still scream into his damned intercom to shake you up, but …

Just as well to die, anyway. You never had the courage to kill yourself. He has eradicated every vestige of revolt in you. Vincent has become his creature. Eve has become his creature. You are nothing, nothing at all .

You used to dream often of escape. But where would you go, the state you were in? Back to your mother, your friends? Alex? Who would even recognize you? Mygale has succeeded: he has bound you to him forever .

You hope that the end will be quick. Let him finish you off, but stop toying with you!

Mygale has tied the rope solidly, and you can’t move. The thing irritates your breasts and binds them tight. They hurt .

Your breasts …

Yes, your breasts. He had worked so hard getting them to sprout. It was not long after the first injections that they had begun to grow. You paid no attention at first, attributing the appearance of masses of fatty tissue to the indolent life you were leading. But at each of his visits Mygale would palpate your chest and nod. The implication was unavoidable. Horrified, you watched your chest swelling, your breasts taking form. Day after day you gauged the growth of your mammaries and clutched your despairingly flaccid penis. You wept over this often. Mygale would reassure you. Everything was going fine. Did you need anything? What could he get you that you did not already have? He was just so nice, so considerate .

After a time, you stopped weeping. To forget, you painted or spent long hours at the piano. Nothing changed. Mygale visited you more and more frequently. It was ridiculous. You had known each other for two years; he had destroyed all shame in you: at the beginning of your imprisonment, you used to relieve yourself in front of him. But now, you would hide your breasts from him. You were continually pulling your dressing gown closed in front. Mygale had had you try on a bra. It served no good purpose, because your tits were hard and firm. But you felt better with it: in bra and blouse you were far more at ease .

As earlier with the chains, the cellar, or the injections, you gradually got used to your new body; in the end, it felt perfectly familiar. And, after all, what good did thinking do?

There was your hair, too. In the early days, Mygale used to cut it. Then he let it grow. Whether or not because of the shots, the capsules, and the vials, it became fluffier. Mygale gave you shampoos, even a blow-dryer. You took pleasure in taking care of it. You tried various styles, a chignon, a ponytail, then you adopted curls and stuck with them .

He is going to kill you. It is hot in the cellar; the old thirst is coming back. Not long ago, he hosed you down with icy water, but you weren’t allowed to drink .

You are waiting for death. Nothing matters anymore. You remember high school, the village, the girls—yes, the girls. And your pal Alex. You will never see any of them again; you will never see anything again. You had grown used to solitude; your only company was Mygale. At times you felt waves of nostalgia, attacks of depression. He gave you tranquilizers, swamped you with presents … The bastard! All that, and you end up like this!

What is he waiting for? Is he devising refinements of cruelty, planning the mise-en-scène of your demise? Will he kill you with his own hands or hand you over to some Varneroy?

No! The fact is he can no longer stand anyone else touching you, even approaching you. You could see that by the way he struck that nutty Varneroy. He had really been hurting you with his whip .

Could it be your own fault? You had been mocking him recently. No sooner did he enter your room, if you were at the piano, than you would play him “The Man I Love,” a tune you knew he loathed. Or else—and this was more perverse—you would be outrageously provocative. He has lived alone for many years. Did he once have a mistress? No—he is incapable of love .

You noticed how uncomfortable he was when he saw you naked. You were certain he wanted you, but was repelled by the idea of touching you—which was, of course, understandable enough. Still, he desired you. You were always walking around naked in your room. Once, you pivoted round to face him on your piano stool, spread your thighs, and opened your vulva in front of him. You saw his Adam’s apple shift; you saw him redden. That was what made him even more furious: to want you, after everything he had done to you; to want you, despite what you were!

How long is he going to let you rot in this cellar? The first time, after the chase in the forest, he had left you for eight days there in the darkness. Eight days! He had admitted it to you later .

If only you had not toyed with his desires, perhaps he would not be taking his revenge on you like this now?

And yet, it is silly to think about it like that: the problem is Viviane—Viviane, crazy as a cuckoo for the last four years. The more the time goes by, the more obvious it is that she is incurable. And he just can’t accept that. He just can’t admit that that wreck is his own daughter. How old is she now? She was sixteen, so now she’s twenty. And you? You were twenty, and now you’re twenty-four …

It’s not fair, to die at twenty-four. Die? You’ve been dead for two years already! Vincent died two years ago. What does it matter about the ghost he left behind?

Just a ghost—but a ghost that can still feel pain, infinite pain. True, you don’t want him to go on pawing you, and pawing is the word—you have had a bellyful of his tricks, his sick manipulations. But now you are going to suffer more—God knows what he is capable of thinking up. He is an expert when it comes to torture; he has already proved that to you .